(Thoughts on “Being and nothingness” Jean-Paul Sartre)
Tag Archives: Tea
“If we didn’t see things fine and coarse
How could prejudice exist?”
~Relying on Mind~ Ch’an master Seng-Ts’an (J., Sozan)
I practiced non-discrimination
and had smiled often at my gestures—
until I was slapped by a whisk.
I understand how wrong I’ve been
and the shame I have brought to the other—
Each day wakes me quieter —clearer than ever.
Moments may be still –yet moves forever.
Causes are great —equal to the clouds
one may be greater than the other.
Dew is clear as no sound is loud.
What is it that I see— to bench myself in judgment?
Opinions are statutes!
Saddle my horse—
Giddy-up! I shall ride with the outlaws.
How does one heal from history
With its invisible scars and drooping eyes?
Thatch a new roof— and shush the flies.
If two make peace with each other
In this single house,
They will say to the mountain
And it shall move.””
~The Gospel of Thomas~[48p n] presented by Huge McGregor Ross
~Pine Cone Diary~ -proof 2018
Sundown was sinking from a ridge on Holderness road
Inviting me, or so I thought, to turn off –my one light on.
(The one I had turned on, when darkness was creeping along).
I could see as I stared out from my large window—
the only one in my cave— a dimming invitation
for a quick evenings celebration; honoring a season’s resignation.
I wanted to meet her –to greet her,
Before the winter moon rose to extinguish
her completed season’s accomplishments.
I left the house in a goose down vest,
donning my formal Pendleton— wide brim’s best.
Without a thought, I walked many steps
going about my way.
Until I opened my eyes
on an illuminated path of autumn amber pine needles
glowing from the rising moon and sunlight’s sunset.
They met and greeted me with giggles and mutual song.
I caught their transition between darkness and dawn.
They kissed each other… as the moon
asked me— to go inside
and turn the light, back on.
Photo by RKG… Holdernes Rd. Center Sandwich NH
I taste food at dusk
I eat my meal in the light
by shadow of moon
Blue mussels cling rocks
Tide and moon are true lovers
Boiling for supper
Blue skies parting leaves
Green grass below aging feet
Balance beneath me
Blue birds sang in spring
Announcing flower trumpets
Shook summer to rise
Morning Glory blue
Summer’s last call before fall
Welcomes winter frost
( write a poem of precisely 44 words, including the word dream.)
Notes found on the refrigerator[8/14/17]
I was brought up to be a Jesuit Priest, but destined to live the life of a monk. Escaping the nun’s training, because of their aversion to listening to Hank William’s “Your Cheatin’ Heart” playing in the background— I dreamed as the early mystics.
A Melancholy song
Songs are hidden in the words we speak. —sometimes in harmony
with the background hum of those we did not
know or ever meet.
Our melody can sometimes be disheartening
as well as our belly aching, vomiting
between the screeching cacophonous dominant notes
we may have perceived.
My music repetitively keeps playing yesterday’s Rock & Roll songs,
Rhythm & Blues songs, gospel’s black and white songs
—they are all fine—
But, go to the window and lift the shade
and hum them—
as you look at the sun and the future of rain.
Sing off-key if you must —loud and unalarmed.
Sing the songs that are hidden in the conscience that spoke without a word-
putting you in music unharmed.
Hum the song for unity in freedom
that has morally and musically given us;
without disrespect to life in the words
or thoughts written in our songs.
Or, what we sing.
The Banjo Player
I was talking to an old banjo player, pushing a 103 yrs old the other day. I asked him how his band was doing. “Well,” he said, wiping his face with one hand. “It’s over. There were four of us. One is dead, which left three of us unable to play his part and ours at the same time. Besides that, one is as Cuckoo as a broken string. The other young fella, in his late eighties, besides losing his hair has also, seemingly, lost the beat. Towards the end, we realized we were all playing different tunes insisting the other guy was messing up… and looking at each other with the stare of “each of us had better catch-up”. And, what was worst, when we were all on the same song, forgetting the words, we would automatically pick people out in the audience and break out into “Happy Birthday, to You…”.
We still keep in touch…”’
There was a moment of silence, thinking he was reminiscing when he suddenly blurted out, “Now where was I? Oh ya! That was quite a box of good cigars”, sitting back in his chair with a great big smile.
Oh sea glass greening
Passing through low and high tides
Speckling at my feet
The path once well-worn
Through the passing of my youth
Is now overgrown
I went out on the deck—felt the wind before the jibe caught the blow of a vengeful breeze. The keel visibly surfaced two feet below foaming water, in awkward lean. Water marks on the board, as visible as eye could see— Oh shit! I braced myself against the rail leaning on tippy-toes in the opposite direction.
I went below. I rocked, and balanced myself with each swell before the waves, catching myself with arms extended against the polished teak walls in the bow;
I recognized, remembering the keel’s markings— of my life and against the rail, being driven across the reef of tomorrow.